


Fresh Off the Cutting Room Floor

by Reinette_de_la_Saintonge



Series: From Wolford's Archives [3]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Caring, Deleted Scenes, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Georgian Period, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Major Illness, Near Death Experiences, Nursing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sickfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, What-If, alternative storyline, sepsis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-03-31 00:32:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13963431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge/pseuds/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge
Summary: Just as the title says, bits and pieces that didn't make the final cut of my works and that might expand into a series, in case you are interested.Chapter One: The Colonel's Portrait- Death Comes to HemburyChapter Two: Roses and Thistles- The PuppetmasterChapter Three: Roses and Thistles- Lost In the Woods





	1. The Colonel's Portrait- Death Comes to Hembury

**Author's Note:**

> This one is for Maryassassina. 
> 
> Plucked from "The Colonel's Portrait", this piece was originally set somewhere after chapter three.  
> Please read the tags before you read on, there might be some topics in this story not everyone might feel comfortable reading about. 
> 
> This story line never made the cut as there will be plenty of threats to Simcoe's life much later on (and even based on historical events recorded in Elizabeth's diary) instead, Elizabeth's riding accident in chapter nine happened.
> 
> A disclaimer might be in order: I'm not a doctor. In case you, dear reader, are and I have made some gross mistakes, please let me know!
> 
> Please let me know if you are interested in reading more deleted scenes. As always, I do appreciate your feedback very much and am grateful for kudos, critique, questions and comments.

They walked in the vast parklands. It was in the late afternoon of one of the first agreeable days in spring, and thus, Elizabeth figured, had to be made use of. The trees were still bare; yet a few batches of snowdrops here and there acted as the harbingers of the floral abundance that was soon to grace the lawns, garden plots and woods of Hembury Fort House in the joyful colours of spring.

As Uncle Samuel had ordered, the Colonel walked, still a little unwillingly to show his protesting disdain for a non-bellicose lifestyle, beside her. At least he didn’t sulk any more as he had done in the early days of their walks together. Over the past weeks, he had accustomed himself to her routine (and her extensive walks of several miles). Today, he walked silently next to her, perhaps a little slower than usual but nothing more. At least he wasn’t complaining any more.

Elizabeth had soon seen through his almost childlike, demanding and fretful behaviour whenever anything did not go down the path he wished and especially when he came to the realisation he could no longer resort to quick threats and violence to achieve his goals, and come to the conclusion that all it took was a little diversion to keep his mind off the hard labour of being perpetually huffy.

In her left hand, she held a book of poetry from which she frequently read a poem or verse for him to comment on. When she did so, he would turn to her with an almost earnest face (to be frank, John Simcoe never seemed quite earnest; he always sounded almost like he was secretly laughing at everybody from the top of his startling height- this man for sure didn’t even need a high horse to be haughty) and give short, yet deep and layered analyses or comments on the lines she had just recited. Sometimes it was a titbit of information on the author, sometimes a remark who wrote similar poetry, and sometimes he just straightforwardly expressed his like or dislike. With his head bowed down somewhat to talk to her, the afternoon sun resplendently illuminated his auburn curls next to which the bright reds and oranges of the leaves in autumn seemed almost pale and his blue eyes shone with anticipation and something she read as an emotion close to restrained delight.

It was a start, for sure it was. Admittedly, she had over the course of the last few days begun to read poetry more frequently than before just so that Simcoe would stop as she read, come a little closer to read the lines in the book from his usual vantage point over her shoulder or give his opinion with his eyes locked with hers. Soon, she should need a new book, Elizabeth realised.

And so they walked another mile in the silence that manifested between their literary labours; John Simcoe walking a few steps behind her in his newfound meekness and Elizabeth as vanguard.

As they ventured farther and farther away from the house, they entered the more remote areas of the parklands surrounding the house that had yet to be cleared of last night’s thunderstorm’s debris. Twigs and bigger branches littered the area where the gardeners had left off and behind the next bend, a tree had fallen across the path. It was no particularly majestic or big tree, but certainly big enough not to be moveable without a horse and cart.

Despite Elizabeth’s protests, John Simcoe was adamant to move the tree for fear of her dress and shoes if she would walk around the obstacle through the bushes.

“Nonsense”, he declared boldly, “I can heave this thing straightaway.”

And with a smile full of the reckless bravado of a boastful schoolboy, the tall man gripped the tree and held it up for her to pass through under. He was undeniably strong and certainly looked the part of a hero of old, Elizabeth thought. Evidently pleased with himself, the imposing figure holding the tree with one hand gave her a triumphant conqueror’s smile that further kindled the sparks that were vexing her heart daily at the sight of him with sudden burns.

He could be plucked from a painting, perhaps an Atlas holding up the skies with effortless grace-

Elizabeth didn’t get any further than that.

In the same instant, Simcoe collapsed under a blood-curdling yelp of pain. His hands clutched his stomach with a grip that was surely destroying more organs than doing any good, his knees pulled up until he was almost curled up into a ball.

Elizabeth dropped to her knees, half because she felt queasy at the unexpected shock and half because she needed to know what was wrong with her walking partner.

“Colonel, what is it? Can I help you? Say something, for the love of God, say something!”

“Ah- I… Don’t be wo- Oh…” There was nothing more John Simcoe was able to utter through clenched teeth.

Overcome by pain, Simcoe was temporarily unable to speak, save for the agonising cries that would haunt Elizabeth’s memories for some time to come. During his days on the battlefields of the Colonies, he might have been prepared to receive a wound, to deal with the pain or even to die. Now, in a cruelly ironic twist of fate, pain and suffering had come to haunt him far away from any action and had knocked him out cold, unprepared.

With all her might, Elizabeth managed to roll the much heavier man on his back, something that wasn’t done lightly being only half his size and having to fight against his tightened muscles.

This position finally allowed her to inspect the cause of his pain more closely: to her horror, his usually lily-white hands bore the ugly stains of fresh blood, blood that kept swelling from between his fingers like some ungodly ocean tide, dyeing the costly fabric of his forest green waistcoat in dark red.

Thanks to the clarity of mind granted by the conscious’ delay of processing troubling experiences, Elizabeth knew what to do. She had to stop the bleeding, that much was certain.

To get to the wound, Elizabeth, under some protesting groans on Simcoe’s part and having to wrench his weakened hands from her arms where they left eerie red marks on the fabric of her sleeve, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and removed the underlying chemise by cutting through it with the knife she knew he kept in the pocket of his coat, exposing his almost otherworldly fair skin to the light of day.

 _You would have preferred doing this for the first time under a completely different set of circumstances_ , her mind taunted her. With great shame that such a thought, undoubtedly fuelled by the broadsheets and French novels she hadn’t been supposed to read as a girl, had even entered her mind, she brushed it aside, although it was never to leave her head entirely; looming, it hung there like a storm cloud, eager to loosen its lighting and thunder.

The wound looked like an old scar, forced open by the strain and stretching moving the fallen tree had warranted. Blood continued to persistently run down his side and onto his breeches and her skirt like the strokes of an artist’s brush.

Using his knife, she unceremoniously cut a sizeable piece from her petticoat and folded it several times until the multiple layers of fabric had reached the anticipated degree of firmness. She pressed it against the bleeding wound, causing Simcoe to cry out once more, and tied it tightly into place with the shawl that had until now shielded her shoulders from the chilly autumnal winds.

“Don’t worry, John, you’ll be fine. They’ll find us in time. Just don’t fall asleep, _please_.”

“Miss… Gwillim… leave me… go, it is just… death.”

“But you mustn’t die!”

“It was… _expected_. Long overdue. You need not watch-“

His voice quivered, fluttered like the last beats of the wings of a little bird caught in a snare. His eyes met hers and even now, they glimmered with his usual impertinent curiosity, unblinking, yet tainted by a certain sadness she had never observed in his stare before. His lids grew heavy and finally closed despite her frantic pleas not to fall asleep and turned away from her, as if to spare her to see the moment of death. Simcoe’s head lolled to one side, devoid of life like a ragdoll.

Horrified, Elizabeth put one shaking hand on his broad chest. How cold he was.

Was he dead? No; a faint drumming somewhere deep down below his ribs indicated John Simcoe was not dead just yet.

 "Please, you must promise me to stay with me! Answer me, _please_!"

He responded no more. Her hands were drenched in his blood, sticky with the red substance she tried to keep from flowing freely from the wound that had re-opened, probably because it had never been professionally mended in the first place.

Silly, silly John Simcoe- he should have told her before they went walking (for now her mind made the connection to his slow walking speed- had the wound pained him for some time before?), he should have elected to remain with Uncle Samuel in the house and talked to him, they could have sent for Doctor Enfield, who surely would know what to do, but it was too late already.

The Colonel would die if help would not arrive soon.

Again and again she cried out, waving with one hand, while the other kept pressing the bundles of what formerly was a part of her petticoat on the open wound, hoping someone would see her.

Elizabeth’s voice grew hoarse within a few minutes and desperate sobs replaced her cries for help.

He was all pale, paler than usual, and even his breath seemed to have slowed.

Bleeding from an abdominal wound for so long and without medical attention was bound to be fatal. He would die, he would die here with her.

If this were to be his last moments, she reasoned, she would be the last person he would ever see, the only one who could give him a measure of comfort and offer a prayer for his soul.

Even if she was horrified and desperate, thinking the Colonel was beyond recovery at Death’s door, she pushed her own fears and horror to the back of her mind and focussed on the moment, best as she could. It would not do him any good to die with someone nervous by his side, he needed peacefulness and comfort, which she was trying to offer to him.

She stroked his hand and prayed.

His eyes remained shut, his breathing shallow.

Her eyes shut, too; pressed firmly together in fervent prayer, she heard the approaching party before she could see them.

Apparently, the Lord had heard her prayers and sent help; it was Susan, her maid, followed by her uncle’s valet and one of the stable boys.

“Oh my-“

Susan stopped herself from crying out and pressed her hands to her mouth.

What followed, Elizabeth could barely remember later on; she had told the tale of what had happened to her rescue party, who in turn informed her Susan had, giving in to her natural vice, which was occasional shirking from duties she found unpleasant, snuck outside to take some of the balmy spring air and had heard her cries for help, at which she, thinking the Colonel had attacked her mistress on their walk, enlisted the help of the two manservants who had accompanied her to rush to her rescue.

They had carried John Simcoe back to the house as quick as they could, where Elizabeth had to once again recount her story to Aunt Margaret and Uncle Samuel, who were most kind and understanding and comforted her with kind words and tight embraces that did somewhat ease the tribulations of her mind circulating around the picture of John Simcoe on the ground in a steadily growing pool of his own blood.

He was still alive, somehow, and Doctor Enfield sent for with the coach so as to shorten his travels.

The two manservants, good country fellows not unused to lifting heavy things from growing up working on their fathers’ farms, put the Colonel in his bed.

The bleeding, now stopped in its flow by a more effective bandage made of linen strips made from an old bed sheet, had slowed over time and Elizabeth reasoned that there might not be enough blood left for him to bleed.

How could he die now, here when he had survived the field?

His wound had reopened when he had tried to be a gentleman for her, so she was partly responsible for his fate, wasn’t she?

No, of course not. He needn’t have to do that.

-She didn’t want him to die, she realised with a burning sensation rushing through her body. The Colonel should live and recover, he had slowly grown more pleasant- to her, it felt as if she would never have known him truly, as if their short afternoon walks had only been the beginning of uncovering the man underneath the mask of Lieutenant-Colonel John Graves Simcoe. Would it not be a waste if he died, so tragic, especially now that he had become somewhat happier? She had even seen him smile a little when she had read a poem the other day he had particularly liked.

_He mustn’t die._

She had waited by the Colonel’s side until the doctor arrived, who had admired and praised her bravery and then sent her away before commencing his work of mending the Colonel, who was still unconscious and told her to wash and subsequently take some rest to calm her nerves.

When he was done, he informed the waiting party consisting of her aunt, uncle and herself, that it was uncertain if he would survive and that he had done all he could.

Should he wake up, they were to call for him immediately.

Two grey, sad days crept by without incident, which Elizabeth spent praying and sitting at the Colonel’s bedside, clasping one  of his almost translucently white( due to the heavy loss of blood) hand in hers. His hand was so big and so cold, somewhat calloused from his days in the field and yet in this very moment so tender and vulnerable.

Although Aunt Margaret disapproved greatly of the state of things, claiming a young woman ought not to be in the same room as a man (even if he was in a state of unconsciousness), her uncle had persuaded her to allow her niece to stay, given that without her help (or so at least Doctor Enfield had said to console her somewhat) the Colonel would not have survived at all and it was only thanks to her they stood a chance at rescuing him.

Elizabeth had taken some paper and a set of pencils with her, attempting to draw fantasy landscapes but arrived at nothing; crumpling the latest ill-composed _thing_ and tossing it carelessly on the ground next to her, which was uncharacteristic to the extreme, given she had been raised to behave with considerateness and decorum, she set the pencil to the page anew. The paper sat on top as a book she used to provide her with a plane surface while drawing and her right hand held the pencil, which left her with her left hand to do what she had in mind: she took the Colonel’s hand in hers and studied it thoroughly, each little fold and crease and tiny scars that likely had accumulated during his time in the army, his long, even fingers that had the air of a unique, war-like gracefulness she could barely describe.

She drew his hand as she held it, which was rather difficult because she could barely steady the paper she was drawing on for her left hand was occupied, watched as lines connected to a picture, watched as two hands, one big and broad, one small and slender, came into existence on the page, hers holding his.

It was evening when she was done and Uncle Samuel had ruled she was to go and eat with him and Aunt Margaret. When she, after barely being able to digest more than a morsel of everything that was set before her, returned to his side, the fever had set in.

His temperature had kept rising to concerning levels during the night, during which time a servant was made to sit at his bedside while Elizabeth had been ordered to go to her room (Aunt Margaret would not allow her to be alone with the Colonel in the dark, even if he was still unconscious) only heard about all this in the morning after a few hours of ill rest.

The doctor was called for and had, with a bleak facial expression, announced hope was very much forlorn now and they should rather than praying for his delivery from the grips of evil injury rather pray for his safe and painless transition to the next world.

Elizabeth had not wept, for it was unbefitting her station to cry in public, and reserved a few confused, sad tears for a few moments of privacy in her room later in the afternoon.

Why, why did he have to die? He mustn’t die, he should live. He hadn’t survived the war for nothing.

Curiously, he did indeed not die. A week passed, in which he was feverish, sickly, but seemed to have regained some of his blood, which now coloured his cheeks and brow a concerning colour of red, or so Susan, having offered to Aunt Margaret to nurse the Colonel (she came of a family of many children and had often cared for sickly younger siblings or elderly relatives from childhood on) had reported to her.

With the worsening of his fever, which in the doctor’s opinion was connected to the wound which had begun to ooze putrid matter, Elizabeth had been ruled to stay away from his room, for the sight was none for a young lady of her standing, no image she should have to live with engraved on her mind for time to come.

Never had her aunt considered she might want to see him, pray at his bedside and talk to him- to say her goodbyes.

She hadn’t known him very well, not at all, but still she mourned his departure from this world, for all that could have been as the ice containing his soul had slowly begun to thaw.

All she could do was pray on her own in her room, act composedly around Uncle Samuel and Aunt Margaret and look at her drawing, remembering what it had felt like to hold his hand in reality.

 

 

 

Bright spots of light penetrate his eyelids. While he is still weak and has just awakened from an episode of delirious fever that lasted quite long, how long exactly he has no way of telling but he imagines it must be so, his mind is awake enough already to wish he could go back to sleep again.

He doesn’t make himself known to his carers by attempting to articulate himself, let them know he is awake again.

He longs for the merciful forgetfulness and solitude of sleep. Awake, the memories will come back to him; Elizabeth-

She has not even come to see him when he was on the brink of death.

He remembers the doctor, his helpmeet, his godfather and even Margaret having visited him- he couldn’t do or say anything, he had merely heard them in his state of weak half-sleep, his body too weak to do anything but listen, which must have given them the impression he was still asleep.

He didn’t want to see any of these people, not his godfather with his fatherly concern, the latter’s wife coming to his bedside and stiltedly expressing her hopes for his recovery, not because it was her heartfelt wish, but because she knew it was her husband’s, for whom she appeared to have reserved some speck of caring and concern in her heart, not even the doctor.

The only person he would have wanted to see did not come.

He studies the ceiling above him. So he has survived yet again. Technically, he might still die but judging from his prior experience with inflamed wounds, he is almost certain he has cheated death once more. Funny, how he longs for the merciful embrace of death. It doesn’t seem like the worst thing that could happen to him in this moment.

He has gone through the excruciating pain of almost-dying all on his own one too many times. It hurts. It makes him weak. A human being can only take so much before-

The pain almost blinds him, originating from the wound and the several places where they have bled him.

If only the doctor had made a mistake or if the knife had slipped his hand while cutting his forearm, he might not have to be here in this moment. He would not have felt a thing, already in pain that he was and slowly slipped out of this world and into the comforting darkness that calls him.

What reason is there for him to live on? He can no longer work in his profession and people treat him with cold distance and disdain.

-And the only one who didn’t and whom he loves with all his heart does no longer wish to see his face.

There is no reason, no order. Hewlett (Why does he of all people as a tribulation to his thoughts in such a state of weakness?) would scoff at him and his view of this “new world” he has given him an uncalled for lecture about now and probably shove another apple into his mouth, either for good measure or the sadistic enjoyment the holier-than-thou major seems to have discovered a taste for.

Perhaps if he asked nicely enough, Hewlett would make use of the knife he has held to his throat on board the _Bonetta_. If not, there are other ways to kill a man with an apple than to poison the fruit. It would not be pleasant, but achieve the objective.

Dull eyes find a bowl and strips of linen on the bedside table and next to it, a scalpel. They must have left this in preparation for the next bloodletting, which they had done to him apparently, he has no memory of it but recognises the doctor's instruments and draws his conclusions.

A tentative attempt to move his hand works surprisingly well. Shaking, yet determined, he reaches for the doctor’s tool and brings it to his face.  

It is sharp and will cut flesh easily. It’s by no means his old bayonet, but it will serve its purpose.

Determinedly, he wants to bring the scalpel up to his neck to sever the blood vessels there, but footsteps in the corridor prompt him to put the sharp instrument back down quickly and close his eyes, pretending he is still asleep.

The door opens. It is his godfather.

“The doctor said we should send for him as soon as he is awake.”

“He should be by now.”

The second voice belongs to Margaret Graves.

“I am worried, Margaret.”

By the sound of fabric rustling, he deduces Margaret has put an arm around her husband’s shoulders.

“He is a plucky fellow. We shall pray for him.”

The door is closed and the Graves’ leave him alone again.

Just to be sure, he keeps on pretending being asleep until pretending becomes reality.

 

He wakes at night. The moon shines through the window occasionally when the clouds permit it. The scalpel is still in place. He reaches for it, letting out a groan as he does for having moved in such a way that his wound plagues him again.

His hand clutches the handle tightly and holds the blade against the sensitive skin of his neck. The way things look, he’ll have to be his own Hewlett.

The metal feels cool, soothing, against his still burning skin but also makes him shiver.

John Graves Simcoe will not see the dawn. He will die in dignity, never having been subdued by an enemy. Nobody could conquer him in life- save for himself.

They will bury him outside the church ground if it becomes known that he has taken his own life, but given that his death has been preceded by illness, they are likely to cover it up and tell everyone he succumbed to blood poisoning contracted from his inflamed wound and save themselves the gossip of having had a suicide happen in their home.

Nobody will attend his funeral anyway (the Graves’ could even pay it from his money, he has no need for it any more anyway), even if it is held on church ground. He is not going to be missed. Margaret will likely lament the loss of a set of bedsheets to the stains created by his blood more than his death.

The Admiral might be sorry for him, but he still has a spare he can pretend to be a father to, Miss Gwillim, Elizabeth.

At the thought of her, it is his heart for a change that sends a searing pain through his body. This pain is different however and makes his heart race much too lively for a dying man.

He’ll do it. He presses the scalpel a little more determinedly against his skin and suppresses a sob, realising this is how he is going to die and that the hour of death has come.

In bed at his own hand is not what he thought how it would happen, but better now than years and years of living a life in the shadows of existence, barely acknowledged by his surroundings, plagued by illness or his demons and alone even in company waiting for nature to fail him.

Does he have any last words, thoughts for himself? No. There is nothing left to say, not even farewell.

At this realisation, he cannot hold himself back any longer and his formerly suppressed sobs exit his mouth and become audible as tears stain his face.

In this moment, caught unawares, the door opens a second time this day.

He turns, and to his horror, it is a small female figure that stands against the dimly-lit backdrop of the corridor and enters.

 

 

 

“NO!” Elizabeth rushed immediately to the bed, almost falling over her own feet in consequence to the suddenness of her reaction to the scene before her eyes.

She had come without a taper in order not to draw any attention to herself, but the ungodly silver gleam of the blade against his neck was unmistakable in the moonlight.

It took her, despite her short legs, only three steps to cross the room and throw herself across the bed and the man in it, ignoring his wincing when she apparently hit his wound with her knee and wrestled the scalpel from his hand. It was surprisingly easily achieved.

“Oh John” she breathed, tears rising in her eyes as she put the scalpel down on the nightstand where it came to rest with a horrific metallic clanking noise.

“Please… Please don’t ever, _ever_ even think about doing something like that again.”

“I shall not be missed.”

His voice sounded indifferent and soulless, she remarked with a shudder –and rage.

“But you would be! I would miss you!”

She was close to crying.

“Why have you not come then when I was ill?”, a voice hoarse from disuse asked.

“It was my intention to come but- the doctor and my aunt sent me away, said you were too sick for visitors and that it wouldn’t be a sight for a woman to see, they wouldn’t let me through-“ Overcome by her tears, she noticed she was still half-lying across his chest, her bodyweight pressing one arm to his side, while her right hand pinned the hand he had been determined to turn against himself to the cushions.

Elizabeth collapsed on top of him and did not even try to restrain herself from crying anymore but wept freely into Simcoe’s furred chest.

The thought that someone would consider their own life worthless enough to throw it away just like that saddened her almost as fiercely as the fact that, despite their recent argument, she did not want to imagine a life without him and that had she not come in time, they would have found him in the morning, dead.

The chest on which her face rested started to quiver underneath her. 

And so, they both cried for an indefinite amount of time, speechless, but words were not needed anyway. At one point, Elizabeth unconsciously released Simcoe’s arm, which promptly wrapped itself around her and held her close and she in response encompassed him in her embrace.

The sound of his heartbeat and the comforting realisation that he was still alive that came with it soothed her.

“What now?”, he broke the silence and sounded as if he was not talking about the immediate situation they were in, but speaking in general terms.

“What do you mean?” Elizabeth’s face rose from his chest to meet his eyes.

“I am not dead.” The words came as a cold, dry statement from his mouth, devoid of emotion.

“You’re alive.”

Her hands hungrily reached for his face and cupped it between her palms.

 

 

 

She makes him feel like he is special when knows exactly he is not.

Her reaction did touch him, though. Perhaps he would have done it, had she not come. On the one hand, he still yearns for the quiet solitude of death, on the other, he does not want to see her cry again and even less wants to be the cause of her tears. He is not worth being cried over.

It is not exactly a reason to live on, but it is a glimmer of hope. She does not hate him. It is comforting to know.

“You’re still feverish”, she remarks, checking his temperature, and rises to pour some water into a cup she has found and from which she makes him drink and, when it is empty, pours some more into the bowl originally intended for his blood and dabs his forehead with one of the linen bandages she drenches in the water.

She has lit a candle to see better and busily walks around the room, re-kindling the fire and brushing sweaty strands of hair from his face.

Clearly, she wants to busy herself, to have something to do because she does not know what to do with him. He doesn’t know what to do with himself either.

The agitation has provided fodder for his fever, he comes to notice, he feels hot- but at the same time, he is calmer than before and an odd feeling of safety makes him drowsy.

“The fever is rising”, her concerned voice announces to him. She withdraws her cool hand and walks away from him, but returns with a bar of soap and the jug of water from which she has previously poured water into the cup and bowl.

To his surprise, she washes him, bathes his forehead in mercifully cool water scented with soap and then, sitting down on the edge of the bed, carefully works further down his front and his arms, taking the sticky heat of feverish perspiration away in gentle strokes and dabs before she awkwardly stops at the seam of the blanket that covers the lower half of his body.

He realises it is not the cold, dulcetly-smelling water that soothes him, it is her touch. For the moment, he is protected.

Protected from the world, protected from himself. He is however not sure if he will be if she leaves him to himself again and has to face the pain alone.  

 

 

 

“Stay”, he whispered.

She had tried everything to prolong her stay with him, knowing that he would not attempt what he had tried to do as long as she was in the room. His invitation surprised her.

His right hand weakly patted the empty space next to him on the bed, implying she should sit down next to him.

It was highly improper (for a start, she did not even know about his state of dress beneath the coverlet) but what did that matter? This night, this situation required special measures and- she still loved him. She would never want to lose him.

She climbed onto the bed and sat down next to him, propped up against an armada of cushions. A large, hot hand slipped into hers and pressed it feebly as bloodshot eyes of icy blue fixed on hers.

Elizabeth responded by caressing his hand with hers and urging him to rest.

Obediently, his head relaxed against the cushions and his eyes closed in an attempt to sleep.

Half an hour later, she was certain he was asleep and granted herself a furtive yawn.

 

 

 

He wakes up from a new bout of fever. The fire is still burning, lowly though, but it provides a little light. Next to him, Elizabeth is asleep, her hand still holding his.

She is still fully clothed and has not even taken the pins from her hair. Carefully, he removes those he can find, his mind clouded by fever and his vision blurred, and watches how her hair falls over the cushions. He puts the pins, evil, pointy little things, next to the scalpel on the nightstand.

Her skin is cold to his touch- is it the fever tricking him? He doesn’t want her to get sick.

Achieving this feat costs him all of his remaining strength and willpower, but after minutes of struggle, he manages to pull the coverlet from under her without waking her up. It is big enough for both of them.

He covers her in it up to her shoulders and moves, best as he can, to the edge of the bed to create as much space as possible between them. If someone finds them like this, they shall not think something improper has happened.

Not that he has never thought about _it_ , but he doesn’t wish her reputation to be sullied. No, not for him.

How peaceful she looks when she sleeps; angelic. She is an angel. For now, with her, he is sure nothing can happen to him.


	2. Roses and Thistles- The Puppetmaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've dug through my archives a little and found a whole document with cut scenes I, as my computer informed me, left untouched for more than half a year.
> 
> Right from the beginning, I wanted Eliza Greenwood to deal with Simcoe. In this version, which I abandoned in favour of her waiting for him in the Holy Ground, she assumes a fake identity (an idea I later re-used when she visited the Arnolds' place for the first time) and tries to make Simcoe leave York City by sending him on a wild goose chase after Caleb and Ben, whose names she learned from her brother and which she figures (after having heard the full story from Hewlett) can be used to get rid of Simcoe, at least temporarily, which prompts Eliza to use drastic measures...

With relief, Eliza tossed her shoes off into the farthest corner of the room before sticking her burning feet into a bucket of soothingly cold water.

Despite the blistery reminders of three days of sometimes excruciatingly boring legwork, each and every sore patch was worth the intelligence she had gathered. The hard part had been the constant waits- waiting for her person of interest to leave an alehouse, his quarters or someone else’s house, starting with waiting for him to get up in the early morning in the first place. But eventually, following his trail had been worth it. Simcoe, she was certain, was a creature of habit, of rituals and habit.

In the alehouse, he never drank more than a small glass of whatever least peculiar option of liquor they had, just enough to give away the impression he was partaking in his associates’ activity and never even nearly enough to dilute his senses. His senses were his greatest strength and his greatest weakness at once. On the one side, Eliza had noticed, he was a keen observer, cool and analytic, on the other it was a humble understatement to call his mood swings violent.

Thus caught up in revenge or bloodthirstiness, he lost all touch with reality around him. Basically, he was at his weakest when he was beating the living daylight out of some unfortunate private or alehouse acquaintance. The only thing, Eliza had realised while watching one of his unreasonable beatings the other day, that kept his fellow soldiers from attacking and overpowering from behind (which would be feasible, at least if it were attempted by a group of several strong men) was the fear he had instilled in them.

Apart from this physical weakness, there was also a psychological one: his vanity. All his physical superiority that was rooted in his striking height, piercing blue eyes, practiced fighting skills, strength, unsettling voice and unyielding disposition assured him in his endeavours, gave him a self-confidence that bordered on an impudent notion of invincibility. Perhaps she could use his vanity against him. Physically, she had no chance to beat him; he was indeed strong.

-But had he not already underestimated a Hewlett before? True, her name by marriage was Greenwood, yet in her heart, she would always be a Hewlett, proud and enduring. Not even her father’s bankruptcy had been able to destroy the family- thanks to Edmund’s sacrifice, the greatest sacrifice one could ask a person to make. He had forfeited his own happiness and entered a profession he resented only to help the family survive. Now it was time to repay this favour and bring the two lovers back together. Simcoe was an obstacle. A big one at that in his unpredictably violent and vengeful ways.

Being aware of his weaknesses gave Eliza some much needed confidence. The man needed to move away from the city. As long as he was there, Edmund was not safe. If things went very badly, the two could run into each other on the streets- and Eliza was not prepared to bury her brother yet.

Realistically, in such a scenario Edmund would not stand a chance. Simcoe was tall, battle-hardened and unafraid. Edmund on the other hand was the exact opposite. As far as she had gathered from the story of his captivity, the only reason why he had been able to overpower and stab Simcoe the last time was because surprise worked in his favour- Simcoe did not expect Edmund, a prisoner left with nothing but a thin blanket on his person, to have a weapon.

What the man needed was some distraction. Preferably one that kept him confined to his quarters the next few days or him and the Queen’s Rangers occupied with some mission well outside New York in the hinterland. So what should she do? Much as he deserved more than a few broken bones, Eliza was somewhat afraid to use violence to keep him out of the way, although kicking him in the kidneys, and kicking him hard, would have given her some great personal pleasure.

It was a difficult moral conflict- did the safety of two people justify hurting a third, a person even she had never truly met in person? 

Simcoe was an especially awful specimen of humankind, so much she felt confident to say about him from watching him the past three days. Since she abhorred the thought of inflicting or inciting someone to inflict violence upon him, shoving his arse out of town on a merry little wild goose chase was her preferred option.

According to Edmund’s tales, John Graves Simcoe was a man who did not only remember but _cultivated_ old grudges. If he was given the incentive of possible vengeance, he would more than likely take it. Her goal was to give him an easy target and she knew exactly what she was going to do.

Everyone in York City knew Washington was at a new low in his military endeavours, some British officers Eliza had overheard in the streets a few days ago even claimed everything would be over within a few weeks, Washington and his chief strategists captured and the body of the Continental Army disbanded if only the British acted wisely on their next move against the rebels. That might of course been an ale-induced overestimation, but there was a general rumour that Washington was struggling now more than before. If this be so, the General was probably in need of his intelligence more than ever to find out when and where the British would strike next.

If there was an event in his life he would seek revenge for (at least that Eliza knew about) it was for being shot, captured and tortured by Continentals a few years ago. Edmund had relayed her much information about the incident his captivity had sparked and seen Simcoe go to unpredictable lengths to achieve his goal and make his former captors pay after his release through a prisoner exchange.

Eliza’s information on the topic was admittedly restricted to the events Edmund had been present at and his recollection of a copy of the records of Simcoe’s court martial he had been sent after the Battle of Setauket. While still in captivity, he had been able to find out the name of his captors, one Benjamin Tallmadge and Caleb Brewster, both, as luck or rather misfortune would have it, young men originally from Setauket before they had joined the Continental Army.

After the ordeal of his captivity and back on his post in Setauket, Simcoe had willingly incited violence and sedition in the town by feeding Edmund’s favourite horse a poisoned apple which killed the poor creature explaining the horse’s death by saying the apple had not been intended for the horse, but for its owner, claiming someone in Setauket loyal to the rebels wanted Edmund, commander of the British garrison, dead.

Of course the then-Captain had gladly provided culprits, members of the Tallmadge and Brewster families. When things came to a heat and Edmund had remained steadfast not to execute the prisoners post-haste, Simcoe had taken matters into his own hands and shot Caleb Brewster’s uncle Lucas in front of the approaching rebels under the command of Tallmadge, whose father was also among the prisoners, and Brewster. Luckily, any further bloodshed could be prevented by releasing the prisoners and letting the rebels retreat across the Sound under a truce.

 _On a side note, maybe the day had not been the worst day in Setauket’s history, especially for Anna and Edmund because if Anna, whose husband was also among the rebels that day, had come with him to join the Continental Army encampment, Edmund and Anna would very likely never have fallen in love. Had she not jumped from the boat and swum back to shore-_ But she was trailing off.

Simcoe demanded her full attention. In the aftermath of the battle, he had been court-martialled and punished into a desk job in Philadelphia (from which he curiously rose, like a phoenix from the ashes, as commander of the Queen’s Rangers.).

Surely the man would want proper revenge on Tallmadge and Brewster, not by proxy of an elderly family member but getting the men themselves. So _if_ Brewster and Tallmadge were running a secret mission for Washington to gather intelligence from the British Army, Simcoe, in allegiance with the turncoat Spy Hunter-General Benedict Arnold, would find much pleasure in rounding them up, especially if the task was presented to him as an easy one. To sweeten the story, she would tell him the two were disguised as civilians and traveling to York City, where they wanted to obtain classified military information, on foot.

Flattering Simcoe’s vanity by relaying this information to him while insinuating that he, clever and powerful as he was, could easily catch these two misguided specimens (after all both Nathan Hale and John André were in the not too-distant past captured under similar circumstances which made the Brewster-Tallmadge Story seem even more reckless and short-sighted) would make him lose caution and depart from York City as quickly as he could.

When he would eventually find out he had been tricked, if he would realise it at all, Anna would already have arrived by boat as planned and the three of them could leave the town on the next ship bound for England without Simcoe even noticing Edmund Hewlett and Anna Strong had ever been anywhere close to him.

The only thing she needed to do now was get to Simcoe and best get to speak to him alone; the plan could be communicated to him only. If anybody else got word of it and later found out it was false, the Army might suspect her to be a Continental informant or spy and then-

There was an undeniable element of foolhardy bravery to the plan not even its plotter could deny, especially when it came to dealing with the man himself. At least, dark-haired ladies were his type, which might work in her favour if she played her cards cleverly. She was too old for presenting herself as the damsel in distress, Eliza mused while looking at her reflection in the almost blind mirror across the room, but exactly the right age for a respectable loyalist widow who harboured a personal grudge on the Continentals for the killing of her husband. A plausibly constructed backstory that would give her reason to betray the Continentals to the British laced with some cleverly placed strokes for Simcoe’s ego should do the trick.

Knowing his schedule, Simcoe would retreat to his quarters in Rivington’s boarding house at around eight, perhaps ten depending on if he was in the mood for beating someone up under the pretence of a drink at the inn. She would wait for him there and then make herself known as a visitor. These officers often had female visitors at night, so nobody would look twice.

As good as her plan sounded, Eliza was unable to sleep with agitation. It was not exactly fear that made her stay awake all night; it was the mere idea of having to meet Simcoe. And what if he was not fooled by her story? What if he took _her_ for a Continental agent tasked with getting him out of the way for the actual operation in York City? All right, she was scared. Very scared, and Edmund must not know of her whole plan until it was over. In the worst case, Simcoe would have her dealt with, perhaps never to walk free (or walk at all) again, leaving Edmund with no trace of her. Nobody would look for her in the event of her disappearance. No, no more thoughts like this, she would succeed. Simcoe would fall for her ploy and heave his arrogant behind out of York City by sunset of the next day.

At last, Eliza found some shallow and uneasy sleep that kept her off thinking about her secret mission until dawn, when she rose and dressed herself in order to meet her brother for breakfast.

Pretending all day to be the usual, cheery Elizabeth, Edmund did not notice a thing about his sister’s plans or the agitation beneath the veneer of optimistic smiles and her usual jests, all of which sounded false and utterly forced in Eliza’s ears. He was busy drawing up plans for Anna’s arrival and was so lost in the tiniest details that he hardly remarked upon anything not concerning Anna Strong.

Only yesterday he had dragged her into a dress-maker’s to ask her opinion on a dress visible through the shop window that had caught his eye. Normally, new dresses were custom-made affairs, but their short stay in York City would not permit anything new to be commissioned and Edmund was adamant Anna ought to be properly attired for their homeward journey and so the dress, a piece made to showcase the dressmaker’s skills, changed owners for a not inconsiderable sum. Happy with his purchase, he had also, on a whim, decided to buy matching ribbons and a pannier as well as a modest, yet elegant pin to adorn the front of a dress. Anna Strong might depart from her old life as a camp follower, but she would leave America as a lady.

With Edmund thus caught up in his doubtlessly rose-tinted reveries, he only nodded with a half-hearted “Goodbye, my dear” without even looking up from the papers he was engrossed with when Eliza left their joint abode under the pretence of wanting to see the play at the theatre around the corner. Single women of good breeding were perhaps rather unusual attendants, but Edmund caught the bait nevertheless. Eliza wasn’t even sure if the meaning of her words had penetrated the bony fortification of his cranium. He had not even noticed she had changed into the green “Elizabeth, Queen of Scots” dress and added some jewellery to complete her look as well as rearranged her hair. Men, Eliza scoffed silently, were so unobservant. If Simcoe was only half as unperceptive as Edmund, her mission should be crowned with success.

By seven in the evening, Eliza loitered around Rivington’s, ever-changing her position by walking up and down the street, only spending a few minutes in one place before moving again, never letting the door out of sight. The blisters on her feet were still fresh enough to protest with discomforting pain against another night on her feet. Brushing the pain aside, Eliza concentrated on the entrance. Many men in red coats came and went; some in company of other men in tricorns, red coats and wigs, others with one or several women. Whenever the door opened, the indistinct sounds of music and bawdy tavern behaviour reached her ears. The longer she waited, the colder she felt, almost wishing she could be inside the boarding house among the warmth of the many wine-heated bodies and a crackling fireplace. _God, if I have to wait here any longer, Edmund can amputate_ my _toes later,_ Eliza thought wryly, wriggling her almost numb toes best as she could to ensure blood circulation and reassure herself they were at least still somewhat alive. 

Finally, at around 20:45, if she had counted the minutes correctly, a tall man in a dark uniform entered. At first, Eliza was unsure if it really was Simcoe, but all doubts dissipated as soon as the man opened the door: in the soft yellow light that emerged into the night from inside, the hair visible underneath his tall feather-adorned hat glimmered brightly in a tell-tale copper hue.

Suddenly, all of the cold-induced drowsiness was gone from her body and Eliza found herself standing bolt upright with her senses twice as alert as before.

Without wasting any time, she analysed how to best proceed from there. Simcoe would need some time to get to his room with all the other officers present. He might be lured into a conversation or ask for a drink before retiring to his lodgings. To definitively ensure meeting him alone in his room out of earshot of anybody else and partly to calm herself as well, Eliza recited the entirety of _Henry V_ ’s Saint Crispin’s Day Speech in a low mutter to herself, almost like a prayer to pass some more time. Shakespeare’s words of bravery and fighting for one’s cause against all odds warmed her with some new-found bravery. Simcoe was not the entire French army.

On shaking legs and a “now or never” in a clear, unwavering voice, Eliza almost strode to the entrance. The guards in front of it ordered her to stop as she reached for the door handle, almost a little too nonchalant to look like a regular visitor.

“Halt! What is your business?”

“Can’t you tell?” Eliza retorted dryly, one eyebrow raised in mocking condescension. “Lieutenant-Colonel Simcoe invited me. If you won’t let me in, he will be very _disappointed_.”

She savoured the last word of her sentence on the tip of her tongue hoping the man’s reputation had reached the guards. Apparently it worked, for one of the men made an unpleasantly surprised face as if dealing with this particular person made him more than uncomfortable and wordlessly motioned her to go inside.

Once inside the main room stuffed with officers and some invitees, all of them of the fair sex, a few heads turned after the new arrival but thankfully, no one approached her directly. Looking for someone whom she could ask for directions, she spied a young man dressed in modest black clothing with a tray of glasses in his hands. Eliza waited until he had delivered his cargo safely to a table close by before she approached him.

“Can you tell me where I can find Colonel Simcoe’s room”, she said in an almost cordial voice. Being ordered around night and day by military men, the best way to gain any information from the boy was probably to shower him with irresistible friendliness.

“Third door on the left, first floor”, he answered obligingly in the demure voice of someone who was used to answer to other people’s orders all his life.

“There’s a good lad”, Eliza said, now almost pitying the boy, and trusted one shining sixpence into his palm.

The right door was easily found. _One last deep breath; inhale- and now exhale. There. Control your emotions, discipline your mind, now knock._

She knocked.

“Yes?” a slightly annoyed voice from behind the oaken door answered. The voice was unusually high-pitched for a man, almost comical were it not for the acidly threatening undertone. Simcoe sounded even more intimidating than she had envisioned from Edmund’s tales. Caught up in her thoughts, Eliza almost jerked when the door was opened from the inside.

“I did not realise I ordered any company for tonight”, the tall man replied, his voice now distinctively more polite he found himself in the company of a woman.

“This is not why I am here- I have crucial information for you- please, can we talk inside?”

“And what _crucial_ information do you have to offer that warrants disturbing me in the middle of the night?”

To Eliza’s dismay, he was not taking the bait instantly. She had to reinforce her argument a little. She stepped, despite reason telling her not to, one step closer to him until they almost touched. Raising her head, she breathed her “secret” into his right ear:

“Benjamin Tallmadge and Caleb Brewster.”

“Come in.”

His tone changed instantly. Closing the door behind them, Eliza found herself trapped inside his room. There was no going back from here.

The room was dimly lit by two candles. On a desk by the window, a leather-bound book made for taking notes resided alongside pen and ink, all meticulously arranged in right angles. On the tiny nightstand beside the bed he kept a few volumes, Catullus’ _Carmina_ , the _Iliad_ and John Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ among them. His uniform coat hung tidily over the back of the chair at the table; already dressed in a mulberry-coloured banyan and the top of his shirt undone, Simcoe had certainly not expected any visitors tonight.

He did, Eliza had to admit, not even look half as revolting as she had imagined from Edmund’s tales. Monsters were not supposed to look almost attractive in dressing-gowns with untameable red curls adorning their head and scars that added a certain air of mystery and battle-hardened bravery.

 No. He was a monster, however deceiving his looks, Eliza reminded herself. It was he who nearly murdered her brother and posed a threat to the woman she hoped to call her sister-in-law one day. Instant disgust washed away any sympathetic feelings towards the man.

Pouring himself a glass of brandy and seating himself on the edge of the bed, directly facing Elizabeth, Simcoe finally spoke.

“Continue.”

The situation reminded her of a trial, the judge seated, the accused standing. His absent-minded drumming against the glass in his hands in irregular patterns nearly made Eliza lose the plot. Under great struggle not to be fixated by the quick, almost mechanic movements of his fingers, Eliza forced herself to look him in the eye.

“My name is Katherine Pole, widow to a farmer in Virginia. My husband- whom I loved very much- was killed by the rebels when he refused to house one of their reckless bands of marauders for a night or two. He was a good man. They torched the farm and-“

Simcoe interrupted her sharply. “I am not at all interested in your family history, Mrs Pole. You mentioned Tallmadge and Brewster. What about them?”

“As I said, I was without home and found myself captured in the woods, wandering aimlessly after my eviction. The rebels forced me to work as their kitchen wench in the same house they held you in. Two of the men there seemed familiar to me- then I realised it had been Brewster and Tallmadge who burned my farm and killed my husband, I recognised them. I tried to keep my head down and do as I was told to spare me trouble, but I kept remarking things, like the dreadful screams from the cellar, wishing I could help the wretched man they were obviously maltreating, if not worse…  A few times I was certain they had killed their prisoner. I only found out who their second captive was when the General came to free you-“

“Don’t try my patience. Why should all this _matter_ to me? I am free now and I do not intend to revisit the days of my captivity.”

His piercing blue eyes found hers. Like a snake petrifies its victim with its stare, Simcoe tried to crack her, break her mental barriers, see if she would make a mistake, if she was genuine. Her feet hurt worse than before with a stinging pain that made Simcoe and the room in front of her blur out of focus every now and then.

Eliza staggered a little, close to losing her footing but caught herself just in time. Mustering all the remaining strength left in her, Eliza forced her eyes to Simcoe’s and continued almost unfalteringly:

“We want the same thing.”

He tilted his head, the bad imitation of a playful child.

“So?”

“Vengeance. Vengeance on Brewster and Tallmadge. I cannot avenge my husband or my mistreatment at their hands, I am but a woman- and not the youngest either. But you, you have your own force of men, you could easily catch them. I escaped the rebels only recently at night at the opportunity provided to me by particularly bad weather. I overheard things all the time, among them about their secret mission but had no use for the information I had gathered. When I came to York City to live with a relative, word of you reached me and I thought- I thought you might be interested in bringing justice to these men.”

He took another sip from his glass. The room was completely silent, save for Eliza’s pounding heart and Simcoe’s tapping fingers.

“Do go on, Mrs Pole.”

At this point Eliza was given new hope her plan might work. She had him hooked, his eyes clinging to her lips like barnacles to an old boat.

“They have a plan to march down through the woods toward York City and enter the town dressed as civilians. They’re after plans for where the Army will strike next. It’s only the two of them, Tallmadge and Brewster, wouldn’t trust their own men with this mission due to its immense significance. As far as I know they’re about to depart within the next two days. That’s all I know.”

Eliza looked down to inspect her shoes. Simcoe still eyed her with interest, an interest Eliza could not quite place as either positively intrigued by her story or imminent danger.

_Come on, Eliza, fear won’t do you any good! Give him the distraught widow you are supposed to be!_

True, she was a widow. Images flashed before her mind- James Stretton’s body, the funeral, all dressed in black. The feeling of Edmund’s tight embrace when he told her the news. Jeremiah Greenwood, her wedding day; the day she buried him not even ten years later. Her feet hurt worse, she realised. Weakened from the previous days spent without much sleep and up on her feet, her left knee finally betrayed her, giving in to her full bodyweight, causing Eliza to stumble and fall. Almost instantly, she chided herself for this show of weakness. Simcoe was not the sort of person one ought to show one’s weaknesses to-

A pair of large, surprisingly gentle and careful hands took hold of her and pulled her back up on her feet. One would expect the skin of a demonic creature like him to feel reptilian, dry, hot scales, or like a snail, cold and slimy. He had proven her wrong, they were human and felt human, too, and not at all entirely unpleasant, she remarked with a shudder of disgust aimed at herself.

Simcoe now stood face to face with her.

“There is no need to faint. We will get these men. They shall be caught and treated with no mercy, _I promise_.”

When Simcoe’s voice had seemed intimidating to her when she first heard it, the latter part of the sentence sent shivers of most pristine fear down her spine. _I promise_ \- he hadn’t said that to reassure her in getting retribution for her supposed dead husband, this was a threat, a promise to himself. He really wanted those two dead badly and all by and for himself.

“Thank you, Colonel. I shall be eternally grateful. However I can repay your favour once you return-“ Eliza reached for the small purse dangling from her girdle.

“I don’t need money, or riches. Being the one to let Brewster and Tallmadge answer to their crimes shall be reward enough.”

He opened his mouth just enough to bare his teeth and moved the corner of his mouth upwards, probably thinking this is what a reassuring smile looked like. In truth he looked like a shark, ready to rip its unsuspecting prey into pieces. Much as his mouth was distorted into a grimaced travesty of a smile, his cold, blue eyes remained unchanged, unblinkingly fixed on Eliza’s sea-wave coloured ones.

It was as if Simcoe had all his live only ever watched fellow human beings from afar and then, when he was given the opportunity to mingle with them, imitated what he had seen, but of course all distorted, never quite right, adding considerably to the odd feeling of almost paralytic terror Eliza experienced when she looked him in the eye. Not even his voice sounded entirely human.

“Thank you, Colonel Simcoe, I will pray for your safe return and always remain in your debt.”

“Nonsense. I thank you for your interesting report. Goodnight, Mrs Pole”, he said, his voice somewhat impatient to get rid of her.

 

Back outside in the nightly cold, Eliza wondered if her plan had succeeded after all. Simcoe did not sound as interested anymore towards the end, judging from the speed with which he rid herself of her.

 

Two days later, the Queen’s Rangers left for the hinterland with Simcoe riding at their helm.

Relieved at these news, Eliza called for another cup of tea to be brought to her room where she lay sprawled on the bed, her feet put up on an extra cushion. To aid the healing process, they were first bathed in a brew of chamomile in the morning and then bandaged. Having prescribed herself bed rest until walking would feel somewhat more pleasant, Eliza passed the time reading. Edmund, still blissfully unaware Simcoe had been dealt with quietly, anxiously awaited the 23rd. As far as he knew, Eliza had accidentally spilt a boiling pot of tea over her feet two days ago. To her, this rather feeble attempt at an explanation seemed rather threadbare, yet it worked on Edmund well enough. Her brother visited her frequently during the day to play a game of cards or chess or to read to her when her own eyes were tiring from reading. How wonderful the thought she had engineered a plot to keep their biggest adversary out of their way and Anna Strong safe until her landing at Brooklyn Harbour.

While there was pride in Eliza to have deceived the devilish Colonel, her heart admonished her for having dragged two entirely uninvolved men into her ploy. Whatever Brewster and Tallmadge had done was none of her business, she bore no grudge against them let alone knew these men. What if she had now truly exposed them to danger? Much as she regretted using them as bait for an unpredictable madman, a war demanded sacrifices.

Was this how the chiefs of intelligence on both sides felt like? Designing clever plots and little divertissements for each other, drawing up plans for battles and ambushes but never having to risk their own lives for their actions? Admittedly, Major André got himself captured, tried and executed when he was chief of the British intelligence. But realistically, it was always the unknown men and perhaps even women, regular people recruited to serve what they were told by men in uniforms was a higher, sanctified Cause who died first.

As soon as she made the decision to join in the fray by reuniting Anna Strong and Edmund Hewlett, she had unwittingly signed a pact with the devil. A war could never be just, innocents were equally affected as the men firing muskets at each other on the battlefields of Monmouth or Saratoga in the name of King and ( _or_ ) Country.

How had she been so ignorant? Thinking Edmund and Anna were just two halves of the same heart begging to be reunited, her mind had completely omitted the fact that they stood on opposing sides. Recruiting Abraham Woodhull had been the first step down the staircase descending into the murky waters of complicated loyalties, red and blue. Then there was her almost-brother-in-law, whose ship they were supposed to board who could get into severe trouble would anybody find out about Anna’s past before the ship left the harbour on the 23rd. And now, she used both sides against each other, made Simcoe dance to her tune on the expense of two not exactly innocent, yet uninvolved officers of the Continental Army.

In all honesty, Eliza did not care much about the war in itself at all- she was neither an ardent British nationalist nor, though Scottish, a daughter of William Wallace or Robert de Bruce. Scotland had seen its own war with the Crown not even fifty years ago. Where the dead highlanders of Culloden Moor in the right then? Were the Americans in the right now? Was it good to fight something you couldn’t win against? Or maybe the Americans could. Who knew how fortunes might still twist and turn in unexpected directions.

Eliza had no answer to all her questions nor could she hope to ever find any from anybody else. Perhaps it was the privilege of a ready mind to suffer under the pressure of such moral and almost philosophical questions. Perhaps being aware of the conflict she found herself in, both military and moral, was the closest she could ever come to finding the answers she wanted so badly. If Tallmadge and Brewster came to any harm it was her fault, their deaths (she did not dare to pretend Simcoe might show mercy to his former captors) her doing.

She would be responsible for the deaths of two men she hadn’t even known. She knowingly traded two lives for two other lives. Who had given her the right to choose Anna and Edmund over Tallmadge and Brewster? She closed her eyes and folded her hands in her lap.

 

_Our Father, which art in heaven,_

_Hallowed be thy Name…_

After all the hardships Eliza had witnessed happen to her family and in some cases herself had put her rather off praying, she found herself doing so now once again after a long time. She prayed for the two rebel officers, for their safety, for forgiveness for having meddled in this conflict she was no natural part of, for the safe travel to York City of Anna Strong and a good voyage. That was all she could do now, Elizabeth Greenwood, widow, sister, supposedly lady of good breeding, literature enthusiast, amateur puppeteer, intelligencer.


	3. Roses and Thistles- Lost In the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, you all! Here is another deleted scene I thought would be too sad to throw away. It's my first attempt at the encounter between Simcoe and Anna in the latest chapter of "Roses and Thistles", but different.  
> While two smaller elements have remained the same, the rest is brand new, or should I rather say, old. I wrote this well before the 4th season aired and had a wholly different plan for the plot back then.
> 
> Originally, Anna was decided to go to York City and get back to Edmund after having returned from her mission there with Caleb, who, seeing holding Anna back in camp is of no use, arranges for a fellow whaleboat man to ferry her part of the way- he however gets ambushed in a weird sub-plot involving Robert Rogers (I almost made the same mistake as TURN bringing him back without having any real purpose in the plot) and Anna, lightly injured and not knowing where she is has to continue on her own, stumbling through the woods and undergrowth, desperate to keep moving, trying to make it to town on time before her beloved's ship sails for England.   
> On her way, somewhere in the forest, she bumps into someone she definitively didn't want to meet who is lurking there for some rebels to ambush.
> 
> As I said, I wrote this well before season four (and well before my research into the life and times of a certain colonel), so of course I re-wrote it after the events of the fourth season.
> 
> Now that I've bored you enough, I hope you'll enjoy this alternative course of events- it's going to be a bumpy ride (quite literally) for all characters involved.

The net tightened. Tonight, he expected, he could make some more good use of his bayonet. The mere idea of bayonetting two very specific specimens of Washington’s worthless minions, reinforced by the memory of his ordeal while in captivity, sent him into a state of almost impatient anticipation.

Extinguishing enemies was the only thing he knew he was good at and that, to be frank, brought him a certain satisfaction and reward at the same time; especially when personal revenge was involved.

As a youth, he had fancied himself a poet until an incident at boarding school so painfully alike to the one in that Pennsylvanian hellhole had rather put him off the idle pursuit of gentle words. Soon after that he had realised that in order to be left alone he would have to win his peers’ respect if he could not win their friendship. But respect cannot be commanded; only instilled, and best so by fear. His tall frame and, he had to admit to himself quite vainly, unusually blue eyes coupled with a few well-chosen threats and the odd cracked nose or rib of another student did the trick quite well and shut those pesky imbeciles who would mock his voice and his verse up pretty quickly. It took him not long to find a perverse liking in being the uncrowned ruler of schoolyard and classroom with teachers and fellow schoolboys alike fearing his wrath.

Sometimes though, in the small hours of a sleepless night haunted by ghosts of the past or the smile of Anna Strong, the beautiful angel who had tormented his soul for so long, he still reached for his quill and ink pot and would pen a few lines, sometimes better, sometimes worse. These poems, if he could call them that for they, he found, varied greatly in quality, were kept safely concealed within his personal diary. Nobody would ever presume to find something compromising in a small book recounting the British Army’s movements and some loose accounts on his Rangers.

Unfortunately, the night was moon- and starless thanks to the thick grey clouds that had already covered the sun during the day and intended to do the same to her nightly counterpart. A starry night with the radiant full moon at its centre, a night in short, that weaklings like Frog Face would spent getting neck cramps to admire the starry heavens in stilted words, would have been more ideal for this task as some light would be useful for having at least some idea of where things (and above all the enemy) were, but the weather could not be helped.

If St Peter had decided to cloud the moon, so be it. Neither saint nor Satan could divert him from his (welcome) task now.

His fingers tapped a soundless melody on the sheath of his bayonet. When would these miserable creatures finally arrive? Like a panther waiting for his unsuspecting prey, Simcoe remained quiet in his hiding place behind an elderberry bush, never taking his eyes off his surroundings and always alert to any unnatural noises.

There. A crack. A branch, a piece of tree bark under an inattentive foot had given the man away.

Simcoe’s back straightened and his hands, used to prepare for a fatal attack, checked his weapons without him even taking note of it.

Footsteps in the dark. Light footsteps, almost too light for a man of height or size. Maybe a one-man advance party sent to scan the surroundings for attackers.  A boy perhaps, so in the event of a capture, Washington would not lose an able fighter, only some easily recruited cannon fodder.

All in all, an adversary of no consequence. Well, what did it matter, rebel was rebel and the honour of the first kill belonged to him and him only. With a gesture of his hand, he ordered his men to stay behind as he stepped out into the dark that was only scarcely lightened by a few brave attempts of the moon to free herself from her cloudy prison cell. He moved further away from his men, thrilled by the idea of an easy one-to-one combat he would win, careful not to make a sound.

There was a small clearing nearby; this was where he could catch the rebel the easiest. He would remain hidden in the foliage while his adversary walks past into the open space. If he needed reinforcements, the other Rangers were hiding not too far away, but of course he doubted how these lesser men, these brutes he had moulded into a working fighting force of at least some discipline, could be of assistance to him.

The moon was gone yet again as the footsteps approached, passing his hideout in an elderberry bush. The time to strike had come. With predatory quickness his hands gripped the unsuspecting rebel from behind, one over the mouth, the other around the neck, bayonet at his victim’s throat.

 

 

 

Anna wanted to cry, but a hand covered her mouth. A stranger’s hand that, like the image of a nightmare, seemed to have grown out of nowhere from the darkest folds of the night to haunt passing travellers. Another hand held something cold to her neck.

The hands seemed to have conjured up a body to which they connected, a warm body, a human body. Unmercifully, this was not a bad dream at all; she would not wake up in Whitehall’s guest room bathed in sweat in the middle of the night only to realise her entire journey from the wedding onwards had been a bad dream and these hands only the pinnacle of all horrors that alerted her consciousness to save her from the misery of a bad night’s dream. She would not get up and descend to the public rooms of Whitehall to collect herself where the Major would, wakened by the footsteps on the staircase, descend to make sure everything was all right, discover her in her state of disarray and comfort her-

This wasn’t a dream.

The hand over her mouth was _real_. The blade threatening her neck was real. Her injured left arm throbbed painfully due to the gruff treatment it received at the hand of her captor.

She closed her eyes. This was it, then. Fighting back would get her killed. Not fighting back probably as well. Her body forcefully restrained in the iron deadlock grip of a much stronger man, she would die even before she had any chance to reach Brooklyn Harbour to catch the boat.

Maybe the letter from Edmund had been a forgery designed to lure her into the arms of the enemy. Or Hewlett had sold her to the British as a last revenge. No, that wasn’t Edmund’s style. He was an honourable gentleman, a good man- _and a redcoat slighted at the altar_. The mere thought of this last explanation for her current situation caused Anna to be ashamed of herself. Edmund would never-

All of a sudden, there was the fresh, clear kiss of the comfortingly cool forest air on her lips once more. Her mouth was free and the blade no longer at her throat. Now, the hands that held her only seconds ago turned her gruffly around to face her captor.

 

 

 

Something had been wrong the moment he had captured the rebel. Too light for a man, slim waist, the firm feeling of not flesh, but stays underneath cloth- even though his vision was impaired by the night, his other senses did not need longer than a second to deduce his captive was a woman.

How unusual of the rebels to send a woman to do the invidious task of scouting the area and not to forget, how gutless and most unseemly to let a member of the fair sex walk in a forest at night all on her own. The rebels seemed to want to whet their dirty little fingernails at the cornerstones of British gentlemen’s manners, which proved once again how uncivilised these colonists were.

Even if they had not realised it in their funny little brains just yet, this was exactly why they needed the Britain’s stern hand to guide them. If he was lucky, his prisoner here would provide some information to help a man on his mission championing the preservation of said rules and morals. He turned her around in his arms and hissed through his teeth in a low voice to order her to remain silent.

In this moment, the moon broke through the clouds once more. Where there had seconds before only been darkness with the odd flash of facial structure (or was it just his eyes playing tricks on him?) there was now a face, framed by tousled dark hair that shone silvery in the moonlight, a face with two large, dark pools in its midst that could drown any man with ease, but presently contorted in an expression of barest fear.

So he had been wrong. Unexpectedly, he had captured a goddess, not a woman. His eyes softened from bloodhound-ish ferocity to surprise mixed with the memory of hurt and widened child-like into an expression that was almost gentle.

The goddess’ charms had enthralled him so deeply he did not even notice his jaw drop.

 

 

 

When the moon broke through the clouds, she revealed Anna the countenance of her captor: a ghostly white face with wild, equally pale eyes of an unnaturally blue hue, pale brows and lashes beneath a shock of untameable reddish curls.

Simcoe.

Always there when least needed, always in the way and perpetually dangerous, especially when fully armed and obviously in wait for the enemy.

 _The enemy_? _She_ was the enemy, although it might have escaped him so far in Setauket. Here in the midst of a forest in the middle of the night however, there was no other theory no matter how well-crafted he could come up with to explain her nightly wanderings other than her being involved with Washington’s cause.

Tonight, she would draw her last breath underneath the cloudy sky over the forest. Not even Edmund’s beloved stars would keep her company on her last journey.

Seasoned murderer that he was, he sure knew how to do it quickly. Defeat was not her natural resort, yet in the eye of the enemy, threatened with the serrated blade of a bayonet at her neck by John Graves Simcoe, whose men were surely lurking somewhere nearby, there was no way to escape.

If she had to die today, she would do so with her head held high. Under no circumstances would she leave Simcoe this last, final triumph of seeing her fearful, pleading with him to let her live, show mercy or the like.

Spirited by this sentiment she looked up to him without breaking her gaze to, if nothing else, create a memory of her that would burn itself into his head and never leave him for as long as he lived- not to make him repent for what he was about to do (had he ever repented a thing in his life?), but to haunt him wherever he would go and fill his sleep with tribulations.

 

 

 

“Mrs… Mrs Strong”, he whispered agitatedly.

News of Anna’s failed wedding and her sudden departure from Setauket had of course not escaped him. There had been enough talk in the tavern among the regular drunkards of the town every night and the occasional piece of conversation that found its way to his unharmed right ear on the street.

How foolish she had been. His foolish, foolish Anna who had made all the wrong choices. And now, it seemed, she was working for the enemy side, just like the husband she had anticipated to trade for a royal officer only a few months ago or the tragedy of human creation she had once _seen_ regularly to his dismay, this complete waste of flesh and bones Abraham Woodhull.

Perhaps she had hoped to gather intelligence for the rebel cause by marrying Hewlett. Well, that was a comforting thought, though to be honest, there was nothing else that would make Hewlett attractive to anyone, especially a beautiful woman.

In one swift motion, he pulled Anna close so her face was buried in his chest and dragged her back into his former lair in the elderberry bush to shield her from the eyes of his men, should any of them be close enough to watch. Hopefully, none of them had recognised her yet.

Many of them had been in Setauket with him and would doubtlessly recognise the woman who once was the talk of the entire town. He knew what he ought to do were she a regular captive, but she wasn’t, not to him. Looking over his shoulder a second time, he ensured nobody was watching.

He did not want any witnesses for this.

 

 

 

A gasp escaped Anna’s mouth as Simcoe’s strong hands pulled her inside the bush. So she was not to die on the spot after all. How cruel fate could be.

Finally, he would take what he would never have got otherwise but she was not to let it happen to her in meek obedience. Even if she obeyed him, he would hardly let her go afterwards. She would be dead tonight, just with the delay of another few minutes of pain and humiliation. As if she hadn't endured enough pain yet.

Edmund’s face flickered before her eyes, fading into the whaleboat man's desperate last cry, ultimately fading into nothingness.

“Now, I need you to do what I ask of you, Mrs Strong”, her captor said in what he probably perceived was a trustworthy, persuasive tone.

In reality, he sounded as untrustworthy and dangerous as always, if not more so due to the strangely insistent tone and attempted friendliness that did not fit that cold, high-pitched voice of his.

“Stay calm, do not move, do not cry out. I don’t want to draw my men’s attention to you.”

With a warning glance that told her to stay put, he stepped out into the open again. Soft whispers were audible from far away. Should she run now?

This could be a trap set by Simcoe. Knowing the man, something was odd about all this. Maybe there still way a way out; maybe if she played the obedient prisoner and lady of good repute, there was some chance to lure him into inattentiveness- before Anna could finish her thought, Simcoe was back.

“I have ordered my men to search to the north of here, pretending I detected some movement on the other end of the clearing worth investigating. They will be back soon, so we will need to be quick.”

“ _You_ need to be quick, you mean”, Anna hissed, ready to fight. Simcoe had begun to free her hair from the dishevelled bun that still had somehow managed to maintain some posture on the back of her head.

“No, I meant what I said. _We_. Remember Mrs Strong, I’m _not_ a monster.”

The fingers that had undone her hair with a surprising carefulness Anna had attributed to be a part of his hateful game brushed her hair into her face. He leaned closer to her to inspect his work. Eye to eye with him, Anna swore she could detect a slight tremble in his lower lip, but his jaw clenched, and all was gone; or had perhaps never been there.

“This will have to do, a good disguise is rare these days. Now show me your arm.”

His voice was almost as neutral and demanding as always with only the slightest hint of an emotion that was not his usual aloof mockery in it and Anna obeyed, still fearful of Simcoe’s twisted nature. A rough hand did its best at pretending to be gentle when it pushed her sleeve up to her elbow. Now, the left hand joined the game by helping the right to get rid of its thick black leather glove. An eerily white hand, its unnaturally light tone even amplified in the moonlight’s bluish glow, moved into the pocket of his uniform to produce a handkerchief.

 _Please let it be clean_ , Anna prayed silently. Simcoe’s gloved hand meanwhile found his canteen. He poured its content over the injury in an attempt to clean it somewhat of the dirt the wound had naturally attracted. When he was done, it looked indeed a little better, Anna had to confess. Folding the handkerchief first into a triangle, he then rolled it into a makeshift bandage.

“It is clean, Mrs Strong, fear not.”

Anna watched in disbelief as he tied the handkerchief around her forearm. Before he pulled her sleeve over her arm to cover his work, Anna could even in the sparse light of the moon make out the three letters embroidered into the corner of the handkerchief. _J. G. S._

“You will leave and run to the south, toward York City. Tell the men at the checkpoint I sent you to deliver the news of a rebel onslaught of your home, a secluded hamlet a day’s ride from here. Stay in York City and keep your head down.”

“I am going to York City anyway.” Why was she telling him this? Why had her tongue betrayed her? The quizzical look on his face demanded an explanation from her without which he would definitively not let her go anywhere.

“I am to catch a boat to England. It sails on the 23rd.” Not a word about the Major. Simcoe didn’t need to know, ever.

The ice of which his eyes seemed to consist had melted. A single tear left the corner of his left eye and made its way down his face, unstopped by the usually cold and distant man.

 

 

 

She had loved that man after all. Why else would she go to England than to fling herself into the arms of her frog prince? Now, she would be gone forever from him.

For her sake, he attempted to force himself to hope the two of them would find happiness, failing at once in the realisation that if he and Hewlett ever were to cross paths again, he would take the chance his carelessness had cost him that fateful night in the rebel camp across the Sound and finish the smug dwarf once and for all.

What did that tiny, wining creature have he didn’t? Hewlett was a weakling in a silly wig; _he_ was a man of stature, family, connections and rigour. And yet Anna Strong, who could take her pick among men, had chosen the little major.

She, Mrs Anna Strong, wife to a known traitor, sometime mistress to another and later fiancé to a British officer, had refused and insulted him as a passion-driven fool, hurt him badly. However he twisted and turned things in his head, toyed with the thought of simply keeping her by his side as his prisoner (officially, at least), it always ended with the realisation that Anna would never requite his love. She would never wake up next to him in the morning and whisper “I love you, John” into his mangled ear, which thus touched by a fairy’s breath, would feel whole and mended again, like his soul would. She would not share his bed. She would never be his, except in his dreams where she haunted him regularly.

Not knowing how his mind drew a connection to such a long-lost memory, a picture of a picturesque meadow entered his conscious. 

She reminded him of something Elizabeth Gwillim, his godfather’s ward, had once told him when he was a young lad and Elizabeth but a little girl on one sunny day in early summer in this very meadow. It must have been shortly before he was dispatched to the Thirteen Colonies…

To let his godfather know of his visit, he had sent a letter in advance, which as he was to find out two days later arrived after him, meaning his coming was unexpected.

Consequentially when he entered the gates of Hembury that day, he was informed that his godfather and his wife had gone for the day to visit some neighbours. Being known to the household staff, he was let into the house and left to his own devices.

He had spent the day loitering in the library, leafing through a volume here and there. For tea he was joined by the governess and Mrs Graves' ward, her niece, an orphan who lived with her aunt and uncle.

Little Elizabeth, maybe about eight at the time, was overjoyed to find a guest had come to distract her from her studies. Although he had not been a great friend of children at that age, especially not after his still quite fresh experiences at school, he reluctantly agreed to accompany the giddy Elizabeth and her governess on an afternoon stroll through the meadows behind the gardens.

The weather was fine and the flowers in their first full bloom since the winter. It must have been quite a pretty scene, actually, the tall youth, the little mousey governess whose name had slipped his memory, and Elizabeth, eight years old, not even half his size and armed with her beloved sketchbook strolling through the blooming fields.

The little girl tried every trick she knew to gain the attention of the rather reserved youth and somehow, he found he had given in to her childish games and attempted to talk pleasantly with her, as far as his limited experience with eight-year-old ladies of good breeding allowed him to.

At some point, Elizabeth had ordered them all to stop so she could draw a particular flower she had found. When she had finished (the sketch was exceptionally vivid and detailed for a girl her age), he had stayed behind and plucked the flower for her. What was intended as a small token of appreciation was rejected with a frown and a precocious talking-to. As far as he could remember, none of his superiors in the army had ever been as grave and important in their manner of speech as this little girl.

“John, why did you pluck it? It was so pretty!”

“It still is, Miss Gwillim. You can put it in a vase or press it to preserve its beauty”, he suggested.

“No, Joh-on. It was pretty there, on the hillside in the fresh air and sun. It will die either way, in the vase or in the back of the copy of _Shakespeare’s Sonnets_ you lent me. You cannot just smother a flower to keep it forever. It will never be as beautiful now as it was up there on the hill.”

 _You cannot just smother a flower to keep it forever_. He could not just smother the Flower of Womankind to keep her forever.

It was the Anna he had learned to know that he loved, not a waxen effigy of a woman forced into submission to fate.

Anna was worse than his captivity, worse than the wounds beneath his battle scars, worse than everything else. And still, he loved her despite everything. One part of him just wanted to pull her close, ignore her resistance and hold her, never to let go again. Another, more quietly spoken part of him realised that he had been defeated. This war, its battles worse than any action he had seen on any battlefield of the Colonies, had been lost.

It was time to present his sabre to General Anna Strong, the expert commander who had conquered his heart and bow in unwilling submission to her will.

 

 

 

“Take a horse. You will travel faster.”

He nodded in the vague direction where his men had abandoned the animals to search on foot.

“Go now, I cannot let my men find you.”  

Of all the things he had ever said to her, this only time did she feel he was talking in honesty. The voice that usually cut deeper than the sharpest knife had lost its biting undertone of a predator lurking; he sounded almost vulnerable.

Anna was of course well aware as to what had brought this sudden change in him about- it was her. She never wanted to be with him and had made that clear in the past. Still, his infatuation with her seemed unchanged.

Somehow, after all he had done in the past, she could not bring herself to feel truly sorry for him. Simcoe had been too brutal to be felt sorry for. However, there was gratitude within her for letting her escape and offer her transport to York City. Or did he? There was still time enough for him to play tricks on her. Well, however undesirable this option seemed, she would have to see.  

“Thank you, Colonel.”

She curtseyed formally, the feeble ghost of a pretend-smile on her lips. Her head held low, she rushed to the tree where the horses were tied up. She grabbed the reins of the nearest animal, untied the knot and started to fiddle with the stirrups, when she noticed she had been followed. Not for an instant was she afraid to have been detected by one of Simcoe’s men; it was their commander himself who had followed her like a dog.

Her dress was no robe de court but made mounting the horse difficult enough. A woman from rural Long Island, Anna had of course learned to ride a horse both side-saddle and, when nobody was watching, astride.

“May I?” Her pale, long shadow asked. She nodded. She needed to get up there, after all.

“No, wait. Take this. It will add to your story and warm you. You must be cold.” Arms outstretched, he offered her the green coat of the Rangers. 

Gentlemanly, he held his coat out for her to slip into. Anna slipped the coat over her shoulders with open disgust on her face. Simcoe was right in that she was cold with nothing more than the money she kept in her bodice to pay the boat with and the clothes she was wearing on her back, which was the only reason why she even considered wearing the odious green thing.

Tonight was however not the time to be prideful and refuse out of personal beliefs or mere vanity (or because this particular garment reeked worse than a tavern with forty dead drunk privates in it, not because its wearer was unclean, but because it was drenched in the bloody business he had conducted over the years), that thing would warm her back until she safely reached the city where she could get rid of it for good. Once inside, a stiff nod gave him permission to heave her up onto her mount.

Her weight didn’t seem to cause him any difficulties; he lifted her up with ease. She was glad these hands would never touch her again after this. Sitting astride, her dress slipped up to her knees.

“The time of his life”, she thought dryly.

“Goodbye, Mrs Strong. Travel safe.”  His voice quivered slightly, betraying the usual veneer of distanced mock-politeness he could no longer uphold. In a solemn gesture of farewell, he offered her his right hand and Anna accepted, sensing the honesty in which the hand was extended to her in order not to upset him and perhaps make him rethink his plans. His hand trailed on the tips of her fingers for a little too long; she pulled away, reaching for the reins.

 

 

 

Anna sat on her horse like Boudicca; a warrior queen in a battered dress, the oversized Rangers’ coat (the colour of which strikingly complimented her complexion) over her shoulders, knees bare, wild hair and proud eyes.

Never had a woman been more beautiful than the fate-stricken fate-striker in front of him. She was riding into battle -and he her mere squire tasked with preparing his queen for the field.  She pulled her hand away from him; one last look, a nod of her head in silent acknowledgement of his help, and she was gone, galloping into the night.

There was no time for him to ponder on her, to let the recent memory of her linger for a little longer because the men surely had heard the horse’s hoof beat cut the silence of the nightly forest. Quickly, he grabbed for the saddle bag of his own horse and produced a visibly more worn coat, which he quickly slipped on. 

“You bloody idiots!” He screamed at the top of his lungs.

“The man escaped us on one of our own horses!” His angry shouts were enough to wake the dead and certainly sufficient to call the Rangers that had scattered throughout the forest in search of a non-existent rebel.

To make himself extra clear and his cover-up look more realistic, he fired his pistol into the nearest tree to give the impression he was aiming at the supposed fleeing rebel.

The men hastened to his side, apologising frantically, knowing already someone’s head would, perhaps even in the literal sense of the saying, roll for having left the horses without a sentry. After delivering an angered speech to his men in the usual fashion, he decided to award Skinner twenty lashes for the stolen horse, he was the one who had most to do with the animals after all.

Twenty didn’t seem like much for his standards, but Skinner, a blacksmith in his previous life, was valuable to the Rangers whenever horseshoes needed mending on patrols or came off entirely.

The man whose horse now carried a fairy on his back instead of a stinking unwashed brute who was at home in every town with a tavern, whores and ale was ordered to walk along.

Riding at the front of his pack of marauding auxiliaries, Simcoe tried to fix his eyes to some spot in the distance, but failed. They filled with tears regardless.

Tears shed for a woman who more than likely was a rebel.

Among the citizens of Setauket it had long been suspected that Anna shared her husband’s views and her departure after the wedding calamity had given rise to the rumour that she might have been trying to join the last person who was still blissfully unaware of her attempted bigamy, ironically the self-same first husband for whom she composed a fake letter and divorce papers and who coincidentally was to be found among Washington’s troops _and_ whom she once had abandoned for this insufferably annoying midget monkey Woodhull.

Even if she had not been an active patriot herself and merely followed her husband’s path out of necessity, she had spent a considerable amount of time with the enemy. Quasi-defected as she was, he would have had good reason to keep her in for questioning at the very least.

Under certain circumstances and depending on her testimony and (un-)willingness to cooperate, it would not have been entirely out of question that she would have been passed from his hands to those of military authorities above his station who might even have condemned her to death by hanging.

Civilians or people trying to pose as such were highly in fashion these days. Men of better station who were found to roam about alone had been executed on both sides. Heaven alone could know what or if she was carrying any intelligence.

Had they found her guilty, he could not have saved her. Well, this was a first. Never before had the thought of an execution made him feel nauseous, on the contrary, sometimes, he felt as cheery as a young lad drunk on his first ale when the condemned was a person he personally disliked.

Memories of weakling Woodhull’s trial and consequent nearly-execution came to his mind. What a satisfying sight to see this undeserving, worthless piece of scum gasp for air. What a pity his plans had been crossed that day, seeing Woodhull die would have been better than the promotion he so long longed for.

The thought of Anna with a rope around her neck brought him nothing but despair. To imagine her standing there, on the gallows, proud as always and with a stonily defiant face ruptured by occasional bouts of fear, he was uncertain if he could have remained true to his orders as an officer of His Majesty’s Army.

He would have done the same thing old Woodhull did for his son that day in Setauket. Thus far had it come- to win the love and admiration of a woman he was now even prepared to forgo his orders and risk demotion at the very least. What had he become? The answer scared him.

Behind him somewhere, Hanrahan began to sing in the sing-song language of the Gaels. Hanrahan was a good singer, his voice nothing like his commander’s, strong, clear and agreeable to the ear. Although he did not understand a word of Hanrahan’s musical performance, there was no denying the man was an accomplished singer. He did not quite know why, but the sound of a foreign language presented in the melodious fashion of a lullaby soothed him a little.

As the second verse drew to a close, which Simcoe only noticed from the repetition of the melody, he called Mac Airt, a fellow countryman of Hanrahan’s who was riding right behind him to his side.

“What’s he singing?” he asked, not so much out of real interest but to divert himself from the memory of Anna Strong’s body against his own.

“It’s about a woman. A beautiful woman, some say it’s about Ireland as well, but it tells of a man who happens to meet a lady.”

Were songs sung by soldiers in any language ever about anything other than women or drink?

“Translate.”

“I don’t have much Irish sir, but I’ll try”. Stammering a little from the unknown strain of the rather academic task the translation job proved itself to be, the man slowly churned out the first two verses entirely without poetical merit.

“Thank you, this is enough. Let Hanrahan sing.”

Sadness, especially of the painfully stinging kind one experiences at the loss of a person dear to the heart was not a sentiment Simcoe had been taught to handle or even identify as such. He struggled with the basic concept of the existence of things, such as feelings, he could not fully understand or control.

It _scared_ him. The only outlet or coping mechanism he had ever adopted for such situations was to counter fear with more fear on his part. Scaring the thing that scared him usually worked; although scaring somebody else would suffice as well.

On their ride, they indeed passed a remote farmhouse, raided it (the owners would not let them in and resistance to a royal officer made them no better than patriot rebels anyway) and set the house ablaze. The owner and his perhaps twenty-year-old son and two farmhands, the only ones to have been at home, lay at his feet, throats slit, in a pool of their own blood.

Quite handily, the missing horse could be replaced with several from the burning farm’s stables the same night.

He watched as the flames first licked and then fully encompassed the roof. For one moment, among the smoke of the burning house and the pleading sobs of his victims, he had forgotten about her. His red travail over, his victims limp and lifeless, the house’s charred remains collapsing into a raging funeral pyre for something he would never part from entirely, she re-entered his thoughts, the shards of whatever cold, little, shrivelled, frostbitten thing he had for a heart cutting deeply into his intestines.

At least now, there really had been a raid on a small farm. When news of this latest _rebel atrocity_ reached York City, Anna would even have a proper cover that complimented her story. She would be safe.

God, he would have killed for her. He had attempted to. He did. And would nearly have died once himself in the act of trying. Wistfully staring into the raging house fire like a less bellicose soul would into  the softly burning embers of a homely fireplace, the overly familiar smell of blood heavy on the cool night wind, his hands and uniform covered in red stains, he asked himself who he truly was. A weakling pining after a woman of no fortune or reputation that had slighted him more than once, a man broken by the flick of a delicate wrist?

No.

This was him. All of this. Even though a part of him believed it, the pulsating void in his chest denied it. A void that the entirety of what he was could never even hope to fill.

His face once again frozen into its usual mask of aloof hatred for the world, his mouth twisted in disdain for such lesser forms of creation as fellow human beings, he separated two of his men squabbling over a sizeable piece of ham they had evidently stolen from the house before he had set it aflame. The two were, as he deduced from an empty cask of brandy from the same pantry they had procured the ham from, quite drunk and in a foul mood when fists started flying. He intervened, separated them and with his bare hands adminstered punishment on grounds of disorderliness and inciting violence among their own.

Moaning and afraid, they crouched back, trying to escape his justice. It didn’t matter. They didn’t matter.

The hand that had not three hours past held that of Anna Strong in ardent admiration now was sore and ached from his angry onslaught.

Flexing his fingers to ease the muscles, he wondered if the throbbing pain in his knuckles could ever make him forget the last touch of Anna’s hand. Maybe he had to try harder. He thrust his bayonet into the ham on the ground, imagining it was a heart, his heart that had not long ago been stabbed by a pain similar to that of receiving the blow of a bayonet. 

No, he was wrong; his heart had not been affected by pain, for he had none, he could feel it- there was a void in his chest that demanded to be filled by something. Whatever _something_ was.


End file.
